'...Man. I've really been through it, huh?
Drifting above them all was Malik, just a flicker of a soul no one could see.
His thoughts were a mess.
No more than ten seconds ago, he was in there.
Thinking. Doing. Reliving. Embodying.
He wasn't just watching his past self—he was him.
Dying, dying, dying… over and over and over.
It was Hell. A Hell he knew. A Hell he 'remembered.'
And like an idiot, he thought that he was ready for it.
Thought he could handle it because he'd already lived through it once.
Yeah, no. That was a joke.
Knowing something? That's easy. 'Remembering' it? Painful, but still manageable.
Feeling every punch, every scream, every heartbreak like it was brand new?
That was a whole different beast.
He was there, even in the moments they didn't see, the ones that weren't part of the 'show.'
Every doubt. Every decision. Every bit of despair.
And just when he thought he'd become engulfed by his own flames—
That sound. That stupid, familiar sound.
What followed was the Script, right in his mind's eye, taking over everything.
{Felicitaciones. Gratulerer. Herzlichen Glückwunsch. Parabéns. Поздравляю. Gratulacje. Félicitations. 祝贺. おめでとうございます. Συγχαρητήρια. Chúc mừng. Tillykke. ¡Enhorabuena!. Mazal Tov. مبارك. Badhai Ho. Čestitamo. Gratulálok. Õnnitlused. Apsveicam. Tahniah... Congratulations.}
It was endless—just "congratulations" vomited out in every language known to history.
Each word was written differently, as if many hundreds of people had penned this Script.
The thing was so obnoxiously long that it had eclipsed his 'vision,' making him skip most of it.
For a second, Malik just blinked, too stunned to react.
But right as he was about to express his confusion, the mess of letters vanished, replaced by something clearer.
[Would you like a short break? Your life's first volume, 'Remember Me,' has concluded.]
Then, after another beat, the Malik of a few seconds ago stopped hesitating.
He answered, eager, the word barely on his mind before his vision went dark.
When it cleared, he was back on the throne, though not for long.
He watched as his chained body was left behind, and his essence—his soul—was yanked free.
Malik drifted upward, floating away from the crowd below.
Many, if not all of them, were still frozen, eyes stuck on the projection.
It was for a time much longer than his, even though they barely saw the half of it.
Not that it was surprising.
They'd just watched Malik—the man they'd branded as the "Villain," a devil, a bastard—be reborn.
They saw the Sultan they claimed to know.
The man they had once followed and feared.
But Malik? The one floating above them now?
He didn't give a damn.
Guilt? Regret? Maybe they felt it. Maybe they didn't.
He wasn't privy to their reactions, too busy dying.
But either way, he certainly wasn't about to waste his energy figuring it out.
Not now when it was all over.
Besides, unlike the other Malik, he hated these people.
Every last one of them.
Huda. Safira. Layla. Noor. Roya. Azeem. And especially Zafar.
They could all rot in Hell, for all he cared.
If he made it through this mess—survived the showing and his subsequent release—Malik already knew what his next move would be.
He'd get the fuck out of this planet and never look back.
Somewhere quieter. Somewhere that didn't reek of betrayal and blood.
Of course, there was still 'Her' to deal with.
The Lady of Time and 'Her' crew.
He owed them, and Malik was sure that debt wasn't something small.
It never was with Gods, was it?
Especially when it came to the Sultan of the Sands—or the True Sultan, as the zealots here screamed his name.
'...Gods never help for free.'
His thought was bitter, causing a wry smirk to show on his face.
No one did. Or… almost no one.
Malik would've sworn by that once, before his first death.
But now? Now, things weren't so black and white.
Because Malik knew Malik. He knew himself.
In any case, he didn't want anything to do with these people anymore.
Not revenge, not closure—nothing.
Oh, he'd have jumped at the chance.
But this version of him?
The one stitched together from memories, regrets, and shards of a man he once wasn't?
Because he didn't just hate them.
He loved them, too. And that was the cruelest part of it all.
Yet that wasn't the only reason Malik couldn't bring himself to act.
For one, he realized something chilling—the people in this hall, this entire planet, weren't just some randoms from another world.
No. They were from his world, his universe.
And he had heard of them before.
Every Magi on this planet was an Irregular—a child of the True Sultan. A Blackeye.
The term was meant as a slur, a mocking jab at those born with natural Aether Cores instead of relying on the mechanical ones.
A reminder of their supposed "difference."
The universe had hunted their kind for centuries. Still did, as far as Malik knew.
He didn't have all the answers—no one of his status really did.
But he'd heard of the stories.
It had something to do with their corruption.
Their power. Their dominance back in the Third Epoch.
Back in the Age of Endless Chaos, when the Ten Ancient Clans waged wars across the stars.
Najmat Al-Khulud was their Title. And they had once been the most formidable force in the universe.
They were nothing but whispers, forced into hiding, their glory days long gone.
Malik never believed he would interact with any of them.
Yet here they were, right in front of him.
Just how would those higher-ups react if they figured out the truth?
The Irregulars weren't just hiding out on some random, backwater rock in the unknown universe.
They were sitting on a literal vent of Aether.
Right, Aether wasn't just some natural resource that magically appeared whenever the universe needed it.
It had a source. A real source.
Places like Al-Fawra—these abyssal holes that seemed bottomless—weren't just geological oddities.
They were believed to be directly connected to the Forgotten Nexus in some way.
A cosmic power source. A mystery. A legend.
Naturally, a place would eventually be discovered, and it was, many tens of times.
But the word never got out.
The Sultan of each era made sure that the secret stayed buried alongside the bodies of those who discovered it.
Malik too had buried the truth numerous times in the past.
Because if the world knew… if they knew…
Well, they didn't. That was all that mattered.
And neither did the planet's netizens themselves.
Which again, wasn't really all that surprising.
'Those dumb bastards wouldn't know their enemy if they were standing right next to them, knife in hand.'
With that thought, Malik's gaze swept across the stunned faces beneath him.
Looking at them now, there was something he still didn't quite get.
'Why Blackeyes, though?'